


From This Valley

by extasiswings



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Cowboy Flynn, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 22:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14318322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: When Lucy Preston's car breaks down in the middle of a road trip, she thinks someone somewhere must have it out for her. As it turns out, it's one of the best things that's ever happened.





	From This Valley

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the pictures of Lucy and Flynn in jeans from 2x06.

There are 1300 miles between Stanford and Denver, Colorado. When Lucy Preston first decided to drive that distance to the 2017 National History Symposium instead of flying like the rest of her colleagues from the history department, all she’d considered was the fact that she had access to a car and that if she had to put up with one more minute of Alvin Canton from the tenure review board asking if she had a man in her life, she would lose her mind. Besides, she’d never really taken a road trip before. 1300 miles, 19-20 hours, give or take breaks and time for sightseeing stops...after the year she’d had, a few days on her own with the open road seemed like a great idea. 

What Lucy hadn’t considered was that her car, while perfectly serviceable for driving around the Bay Area, might not have been up to an extended trip at 15 years old. 

By the time the engine starts making an unholy sound and smoking, she’s at least on her return trip. But, as she pulls off to the shoulder in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, Colorado at twilight, she’s not in the mood to consider that a silver lining. 

“Shit.”

Lucy shuts off the car and rests her forehead against the steering wheel. After a few minutes, she turns the key in the ignition just to check—nothing. Completely dead. 

_Shit, shit, shit_.

It’s not that she doesn’t know what to do—she can call a tow truck, find her way to a hotel, something like that—but she feels like an idiot for not thinking something like this could happen. More than that, her mother’s voice is in her head, scolding her for being too stubborn, saying that she should have flown, that it would have been better for her career anyway (because god forbid she do anything just for herself). The last thing she wants is to deal with an I Told You So. 

After another moment of self-pity, Lucy sighs and digs her phone out of her purse. 

8% battery. No signal. 

Well. That’s...not good. 

She considers her options: 1) she could stay in the car and pray for some Good Samaritan to see her pulled over and stop to help, or 2) she could get out and walk until she finds something vaguely like civilization where she can at least charge her phone and get the number for a tow company. 

At first, Lucy waits—she’s seen this horror movie enough to know that “Woman wandering alone along the side of the road in the middle of nowhere at night” is asking for trouble. But as the sky darkens and cars fail to appear on the horizon, she realizes she might not have much of a choice. 

She grabs her purse and starts walking. 

She regrets it almost immediately. There’s nothing around—nothing but fields and mountains and road. No houses, no towns, no signs—just one Lucy Preston, and she has never felt more like a useless city girl in her life.

Finally, after over an hour, she sees a fence. There are standard signs tacked on— _No Trespassing, Private Property_ —but far beyond the fence, there’s a light in the distance, and she’s not about to let a sign stop her from asking for help.

It takes more time than Lucy expects to climb over the fence and make it onto the property, and even longer to reach the house with its lights on, but once she gets there, she’s so relieved that she could cry.

(She doesn’t. Things aren’t as bad as all that. But she could.)

She knocks. No one answers. 

“Hello?” Lucy calls, knocking once again. “Anyone home?”

There are enough lights on that she can’t imagine someone doesn’t live in the house, but no one comes to the door. Lucy nearly screams—for all she knows, this house is some serial killer’s secret hideaway and it’s for the best no one has showed up, but she’s tired and frustrated, her feet are killing her, and she just wants to catch one break, just one—

“This is private property.”

Lucy jumps at the voice, spinning around to see a man at the foot of the porch. Tall, dark, and scowling might be the best description of him, with his mud-streaked jeans and heavy work boots—in another circumstance, she might care more about the stiff stance radiating _Go Away_ , but she’s so grateful to see another person that she brushes it off.

“I know,” she replies. “I saw the signs. I’m sorry.” 

Crossing his arms over his chest, the man’s eyes flick over her slowly. It would be one thing if he were checking her out—she would know how to deal with that—but it doesn’t feel like he is. This feels clinical. Technical. As though he’s trying to decide if she’s a threat. 

(As if she could be to a man like him.)

It’s her shoes that make him crack—his brow arches in what Lucy’s pretty sure is judgment at the sight of the heels on her boots—not stilettos by any means, but not exactly made for hiking either. She _knows_ it’s judgment when he opens his mouth.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” 

“Going off that accent, neither are you.” It’s a completely unfiltered response and Lucy regrets it as soon as she says it, if only because the last thing she wants is to be sent off on another hike. But, to her surprise, the man relaxes a fraction. For a brief moment, it even looks as though he might be holding back a smile. 

“Garcia Flynn,” he says with a small incline of his head. 

“Lucy Preston,” Lucy replies. “My car broke down a few miles away, but my phone was dying and I couldn’t get a signal anyway. I don’t suppose you know the number for a tow truck?”

“I do,” he acknowledges. “But none of the nearest mechanics will be open until tomorrow. Calling a tow now won’t do you much good. You’ll be waiting for hours.”

Lucy’s stomach drops.

“Are you serious?”

Flynn shrugs. “There aren’t a lot of people who live out here.”

Something bitter about how _she’s noticed, thanks_ , is on the tip of her tongue, but Lucy swallows it back. It’s not his fault the universe is out to get her today.

(But at the same time, she would kill for a shower and a clean bed and a chance to take off her, yes, admittedly impractical footwear, and the thought of not being able to get those things for at least several more hours makes her eyes sting as frustration bubbles up inside her.)

As an awkward silence falls between them, Flynn shifts his weight, looking increasingly uncomfortable at the possibility that he might end up with a crying woman on his hands. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat. 

“Look...do you want to come in?” He offers. “I can drive you back to your car in the morning and take a look—see if there’s anything I can do.”

Lucy sniffs and presses the heels of her palms to her eyes to ease the pressure. (She is not going to cry, dammit, she’s just tired.)

“You know cars?”

“I’m no mechanic, but I know enough,” Flynn replies. Stepping up onto the porch, he walks past her and opens the door, gesturing for her to go ahead. 

Her mother’s voice in her head whispers that Lucy shouldn’t. That even a helpful stranger is still a stranger. But she’s out of options and her gut says that while Flynn may be somewhat gruff and prickly, she’s not in danger here. 

(Besides, the time for being more careful was before she got out of her car. She’s past that now.)

“Thank you,” Lucy says. “That...sounds nice.”

And with that, she steps inside. 

It is nice. The house, the shower, the bed—Flynn disappears into what Lucy assumes is his bedroom after some stilted small talk, and she gets the impression that he isn’t used to having company. There are no pictures up, nothing that would give the house a more personal touch, but given the bare walls of her own apartment, Lucy doesn’t think she’s in a position to throw stones. Or to ask, for that matter. 

(There is one picture—framed, but shoved to the back of a drawer in the guestroom, Flynn with a smiling woman and a little girl—and Lucy _wonders_ , but pushes aside her curiosity in the morning.) 

It doesn’t matter anyway. She doesn’t know Flynn and doesn’t need to know him. As soon as he takes her back to her car, she’ll never see him again.

* * *

The car is fucked. 

Lucy can tell from the moment Flynn pops the hood. His eyebrows tick up, his lips press together—he doesn’t have to say a word for her to know it’s not good. 

“You need a real mechanic,” he says slowly. 

(His face says she needs a new car.)

 _Goddammit_.


End file.
